


Honest Hux

by bottlecapmermaid



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, References to the Child Ballads, brief oral trauma, shamelessly riffing on True Thomas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 17:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlecapmermaid/pseuds/bottlecapmermaid
Summary: “I would show you wonders,” the man says, in a voice so soft and deep it hardly disturbs the air.Hux, still clutching the man’s hand, knows an invitation when he hears one. “I should like to see wonders, my lord.”“I am not your lord, yet,” the man says, shaking his head of black hair, “though you may know me as one of the Lords, for I am the Prince of fair Elfland.”





	Honest Hux

**Author's Note:**

> it's the True Thomas fic nobody asked for, but this is the ultimate fusion of all my bullshit and you can't take that away from me

People say red hair is the crown you cannot take off. They say redheads have the Sight, that they’re children of the Devil, that they’re conceived during their mother’s monthly courses, or under a blood moon, or that they’re changeling children. People say many things.

Hux doesn’t find that red hair gives him much more than sunburned skin and the superstitions of others. His hair draws attention, common though it really is; he doesn’t see what the fuss is about. Never has he seen the Lords and Ladies the way Janet the weaver does, he doesn’t have more contact with the Devil than any other man, and treats his hair the way others do their: largely ignoring it. Even as a child he didn’t hum or sway or stare like the midwife’s daughter, who only eats meat and wild berries. Perhaps he has a bit of a temper when it comes down to it, though he’s hardly the shouting, beet-faced madman people picture when they think of the legendary redhead fury. And if his lovers leave his bed satisfied, well, it’s because he’s not some damn animal.

Really he and his hair are unremarkable. The river is cold and clear, the water he draws up in cupped hands sweet and welcome in the summer heat. It is too hot for travel now even in the shade; he has no choice but to rest. All day he has seen no one on the road, though he passed a village in the morning.

When he hears hooves, he thinks nothing of it. When the birds and insects go silent, he takes no notice.

When he hears the bells, he thinks he must have fallen asleep and into a dream. When he sees the rider, he knows he has not. Even Hux’s mind, sharp and clever as it is, could not invent the vision before him. 

The road before him now branches in three parts, where before it only followed its own single way, one narrow and thorny way leads to the left, one broad and cobbled to the right, and one bright and fair at the center. At the place where the three meet stands the rider on his horse, dazzling and awful in the clash of light and darkness: a man in black robes astride a charger brighter and whiter than the driven snow. His face is stern as a king’s and he carries himself like a knight, though his clothes are more suited to a mourning prince. Silver bells hang from horse’s bridle, easily more than sixty, and yet more are braided into its long mane. The man’s eyes are like the space between the stars, even darker in his lily-white face. Black hair soft and shining as a crow’s wing flows down around his shoulders, more like a crown than Hux’s own could be.

Hux does not remember standing or approaching the rider as a moth does a lantern, but he finds himself gazing up into the man’s strange, unsmiling face. The rider extends his scarred right hand, never looking away from Hux’s eyes.

And Hux, God help him, catches that cold hand up in his own and kisses it as he would his own king’s hand. His heart pounds like that of a hunted deer; the man’s skin between the scars is soft as silk, his palms calloused the way knights’ palms always are. His skin does not smell of sweat or leather or horses as Hux unconsciously expected, but of snow and stone and night. He does not smell like any thing living or dead, but like the land itself. Under the burning sun, in the shadow of the rider’s gaze, Hux shivers, though not from any chill. He hardly dares lift his head for fear of what he might see in the rider’s face, this man clearly not of mankind. The man’s hand does not move in Hux’s grip, not one twitch or tremor, nor does he seem to sweat under the bright day. Hux cannot even feel the beat of blood under his lips on the man’s skin.

At last, for fear he may never move again if he does not take his chance, Hux looks up to the man’s face. A corner of his mouth curves up, a wide red slash across his long pale face. Hux would not call him fair, as that is too gentle a word for this kind of otherworldly appeal; certainly his skin is pale and his hair and eyes dark, but in the way a sketch in charcoal on white parchment is pale and dark, and his face is like something drawn by an artist who had never seen any apart from himself in life. The smile, if it may be called that, feels like a benediction or a damnation. Hux does not know which. He has never been damned before, and only rarely blessed.

“I would show you wonders,” the man says, in a voice so soft and deep it hardly disturbs the air.

Hux, still clutching the man’s hand, knows an invitation when he hears one. “I should like to see wonders, my lord.”

“I am not your lord, yet,” the man says, shaking his head of black hair, “though you may know me as one of the Lords, for I am the Prince of fair Elfland.”

Of course he’s not of this world. How could he be, Hux wonders, so bright and other? The man inclines his head to the roads behind him.

“See you these ways?” he says, as if Hux could somehow miss them for staring at his glory.

Hux nods. Maybe he does have the Sight, if the Fae Prince thinks he might not see the roads. Or maybe he’s simply being grand before a gaping mortal, Hux thinks. Even in the face of such wonderment, part of Hux remains removed and aloof, disdainful of any and all who might look down on him. He will not stand for such an insult, and bristles like a cat.

“The narrow road that looks so harsh and untrod leads the way to Paradise, though few enquire after it,” the Prince says carelessly. “And the wide one leads to hell.” He watches Hux consider this revelation.

“And the middle one?” Hux asks. It doesn’t look much like a road to Purgatory, the breeze is too sweet and the flowers too fair. Yet he knows it’s no way to an Earthly realm; the light is wrong, like light through the green glass of a window, or under water.

“It leads to my own fair realm.” His hand now clutches at Hux’s, a reversal of their positions if not of their powers. “Come away with me. It is there I would show you sights few men have seen.”

Those few enough men came back blind or mad or worse, Hux wants to say, or you left hollow things in their places that look like men and women but are straw and shadow and sometimes a curse. Fairies took a cousin of his, a yellow-haired baby boy but the fairy child they left in his stead was a girl, who grew up tall and stronger than the other boys, but had a wickedness and blood-thirst that drove others away from her. She took the king’s shilling and never came back.

The Prince pulls Hux up on the horse behind him, and Hux realizes the charger has no saddle. It shakes its head in a flurry of bells and snorts, impatient to be off or displeased with its new burden. Though the Gentry are said to have a way with beasts, their mounts are still capricious as their masters. The charger starts down the middle way, and Hux quickly finds he must put his arms around the Prince or else be thrown off on the roadside. He has no wish to learn what becomes of things in a fairy gutter. 

“There is no need to be afraid, Hux,” the Prince says, shifting in his grip. “I have come to visit you. You must serve in my halls for seven years for offences against my people.”

“Offences--?” Hux snaps. When did he offend anyone from Elfland? How could he have had a chance? He’s civil, doesn’t curse strangers, doesn’t chase off wild animals, avoids magic hills and toadstool rings. 

“Offences,” the Prince repeats. “Seven years, and you must not speak to any but me, no matter what you hear or see or what others may say to you; should you speak to any other, you shall never leave. After the seven years, you are free to go. On the very first morning of May,” he says after a time, “you threw a coin into the well below the valley. An enemy of mine was in that well, and you released her. As she took my time, I shall take yours.”

“How do you know my name?” Hux says. It had not struck him as strange that the Prince should know his name, though Hux has not mentioned it, nor asked for his royal name.

The Prince turns his head farther around than Hux would expect, meeting Hux’s eyes unblinking. “I am called Kylo Ren. We are even now.”

This does not strike Hux as a fair trade, but he can’t argue against it. Nothing around them looks like the country they’ve left; it looks like nowhere he’s seen, and yet it is not completely other. The colors are brighter, the shadows deeper, the light more searing, the sounds clearer. He hears his own heart, the charger’s breath, Ren’s robes shifting. How long have they been riding? The sun has not moved in the sky, but it must be hours now, perhaps days since they started.

Then Hux blinks, and he is standing beside Ren, before great carven doors of dark wood. Through them he hears laughter and song, the rattle of plates and cups, the crunch of thousands of stems and bones, chewing and tearing and feasting, voices and music sweeter than honeyed wine; the air is thick with the smells of cooking meats and vegetables, baked fruits and treats. His stomach growls, and Ren makes a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh.

“You may eat and drink as you please, though you will attend to me,” Ren reminds him. “Speak to none but me on pain of eternity.”

Perhaps Ren merely wants Hux’s company to himself, though Hux is not aware of ever having been a celebrated companion or conversationalist. “As you say,” he agrees.

The hall is vast, full but not crowded, with a high arched ceiling giving it the feeling of a massive overturned boat. Long tables run the length of the room, with a throne of ornately-carved black wood at the far end, at the head. If the smells and sounds were beyond Hux’s mind, he does not know what the denizens of the feast are. Men and women, yet more like both and others neither, creatures like insects and monsters and things from stories and nightmares sit at the tables, eating rich food and talking and laughing. Bards and minstrels play in groups and separately with their voices or on instruments more like the gilded letters in books than any musical thing he’s seen. Hux hardly dares blink for fear of missing some sight. Truly Ren has already shown him wonders.

The Prince himself strides down the hall with Hux at his heel. Ren does not pay the revelers any mind, but Hux stares. A woman with hair the color of fresh blood calls something to a pair of musicians, a wolf’s head resting in her lap the way a lady might keep a spaniel puppy; a shriek sounds from his right and for a moment he thinks some violence must have broken out, but the noise continues and resolves into laughter from two of the neither men-nor-women, one leaning on the other and nearly howling with mirth. As soon as he turns from them, he stumbles over a foot in a pointed black boot; he follows the leg up to a silver mask of a face.

“You do beg my pardon, I am certain,” the motionless mask says in a voice smooth and cold as ice, pale eyes staring through the holes.

Barely has Hux taken breath to reply but Ren’s hand touches his shoulder and he recalls his vow of silence. He swallows his words and nods to the masked thing. After what must be miles and miles of hall, he and Ren reach the throne. Ren seats himself as it is the most natural and comfortable thing, as if the throne is not a carved stump but is cushioned and yielding. In an afterthought, Ren gestures for Hux to sit on the broad right arm.

“Fetch whatever you please,” Ren says, holding an apple more like a polished ruby than any fruit Hux has seen to his own lips. He glimpses white teeth before they tear a chunk of crisp flesh free. 

Hux loads a silver plate with roasted meats, fresh fruit and vegetables, things he doesn’t recognize but which smell like heaven. He tries to bite into a dull red fruit; after a struggle he breaks the bitter, tough skin and garnets the size of his fingernail fall out in a burst of juice like blood. Creatures around him laugh and one tries to explain how to eat the fruit, picking the seeds out and putting them in his hand. He nods at them, but does not speak. At the head of the last table, he collects two goblets and balances them with the plate. Ren nods distractedly when Hux holds out the goblet to him, dark gaze fixed far away across the full hall. How easy it would be to poison him! Ren lifts the cup to his mouth and under the high collar of his robes his throat works until Hux wonders if he means to drown himself in the thick red wine. For a man at the head of a fairy feast, he is not inclined to join his own wild people in their revelry.

Settling himself back on the arm of the throne, Hux eats and watches, sometimes with his eyes on Ren, sometimes with his eyes on the fairy folk. The party shows no sign of ending; perhaps it is as immortal as the Gentry themselves. Ren takes bits of food from Hux’s plate as if it is the most natural habit in the world, hardly looking at the things he takes. The Lords and Ladies and Monarchs glitter in the sourceless light, jewels and scales and feathers flashing. Gold and silver float in the air itself. Gems litter the floor, mixed with discarded shoes and bones from the feast--he hopes they are from the feast and not the guests. The fairies eat babies, he knows. Suddenly the savory pie on his plate is less appealing.

Nonetheless he eats and drinks; neither his cup nor Ren’s runs dry, though Hux doesn’t remember rising to fill them as often as he must, and Ren does not move from the throne once. One of the shrieking-laughing Gentry scoops up a handful of jewels from the ground and flings it at Hux. It catches him in the face, too stunned by the wealth tossed in his lap to move. Ren’s hand lands possessively on Hux’s knee, and he quite fairly growls, teeth bared, leaning toward the offending Monarch. Even the autumn leaves tangled in their hair wilt and they slink off to a shadowed corner. The message is clear: Hux is not to be harmed even for sport or jest. 

He eats until by rights he should be sick. When he tires of food and drink, he watches the Gentry and Ren by turns; Ren, who is beautiful the way ocean cliffs are, the way the wind over the moors is, like the worst part of a nightmare. He catches Hux looking and smiles for a second.

“What think you of my realm?” he asks, tipping his silver cup to the hall.

“It is fairer than you said,” Hux admits, unwilling to voice his awe in front of a man already so proud. If he’s not careful, he could feed Ren’s pride like the feast feeds the fairies.

Ren says nothing, his smile gone, but Hux cannot shake the sense that he’s being mocked. The Prince is always a step ahead of him, on some path Hux cannot so much as see, and yet he somehow leaves Hux with a sense that Ren could perhaps deign to treat him as an equal one day. 

Hux does not intend to stay in fair Elfland long enough that such a day should come. He’ll pay his penance, though the Fairie laws are arcane to him and by rights should govern only the Fairie people, and be on his way. 

As if at some signal, Ren rises and draws Hux to stand with him. The feasting Gentry pay them no mind, seemingly content to watch their Prince come and go as he pleases. He follows Ren through halls of packed polished earth, of hewn and shined stone, of wood worn smooth by thousands of bodies and days. Yet more corridors branch off, both great and small; Ren leads him through them as if by habit and rote, uncaring whether Hux keeps pace or not.

When he stops before a plain door of dark wood, it’s so sharp Hux nearly walks into him. Hux sees neither handle nor keyhole when Ren might unlock it.

“Open it, if you care,” Ren says, eyes glittering with amusement at Hux’s expense. 

Frowning, shoring up his pride, Hux prepares for Ren to humiliate him again. For no reason he can divine, Ren appears determined and delighted to prove his superiority over Hux in all respects. Hux is nearly flattered to realize it, that the Prince of Fairie is so desperate to dazzle him, a bastard mortal, with his wealth and power. He’ll allow Ren a chance to awe him again, he decides, and shoves at the double doors with his hands and then his shoulder, digs his nails in between the doors and scrapes and scratches to no avail.

Catching his eye when Hux steps back, Ren nods at the door, bidding him to watch. He lays his long, white right hand along the seam of the panels from fingertip to wrist and pushes ever so gently. The doors open without protest, as if the hinges are freshly oiled or made of silk, leading into a finely-appointed chamber. Upon entering, Hux knows that here it is always midnight, always clear and cool. Ren and his realm reflect each other like two shined silver glasses set opposite. 

“Go on,” Ren says when Hux glances back at the open door. “You can close them.”

True enough, the doors swing together at a brush from Hux’s fingers. He can’t help smiling, having even a drop of Ren’s power for his own; it warms his blood better than any wine or fire. This time when Ren holds his hand out palm up and Hux cradles it in his own, the skin of his wrist is warm though the smell of him is no less strange. His hand catches at Ren’s wide sleeve, Hux’s green hem trailing over Ren’s black. The Prince inclines his head to a bed piled with furs and silks, and Hux stretches down next to the wall.

“Lie down by my side, my lord,” Hux says, patting a heap of thick black velvet, more fine and costly than any he’s yet seen.

Even in his own bed, Ren is proud, brimming with some kind of restraint thin as paper. Hux resolves to break it. Proud as he is, Ren is not above asking Hux’s leave between kisses to his mouth and throat, heart racing under his milk-white skin.

Morning doesn’t exist in this pocket of Ren’s realm, but when he and Ren tire each other after some time, Hux arises from his bed and puts on some of a pile of Ren’s own black robes and fastens them with a silver pin. For his part, Ren lies on the bed and watches, making no effort to help Hux dress in the labyrinthine cloths.

“Will you come to dinner with me, my lord, or do you intend to lie here until you have sores?” It pleases Hux that his voice is steady and not raw as he expects it to be after such a night. The bed is likely enchanted against bugs and sores and such anyway; it is one of the first things Hux would do with magic. He hopes Ren does not wish to send him away alone, he fears losing himself in the halls without a guide. Forbidden to speak as he is, wandering the Fairie palace alone might trap him here as surely as breaking his promise. He would rather not try his luck.

“I shall join you and I shall take my time,” Ren says, stretching like a great lazy cat. And true to his word, he wanders about the room dressing himself quite as vainly and lazily as any rich maid.

“By the time you finish dressing my seven years may be all but gone,” Hux complains, “and I shall have starved to death next to a full hall.”

Ren waves a hand. “You’ll not starve in my care, and neither shall any harm come to you.”

Capricious as fairies are, Hux trusts him, and leans against the wall to watch the Prince of Fairies struggle ungracefully into his trousers. At long last, Ren pushes the doors open, leads the way back to the feast hall.

None of the revelers pay much mind to Ren and Hux’s arrival, though a couple whoop and raise their voices but quickly return to their food when Ren casts his eye over them. As they near the black throne, a voice rings out both clear and high.

“Robin boy, robin boy! Red robin boy! How do we love thee!”

The cry is taken up by others throughout the hall, echoing from countless voices and instruments. Once Ren settles into the seat with Hux at his right hand, he raises that same hand and silence falls. 

“I see your favor,” he says simply. Satisfied, the crowd of Monarchs cheers and returns to their immediate company. 

A glance at Ren’s face shows him gazing far off into the hall, eyes like glass. Hardly Hux’s concern, though Ren’s melancholy leaves him ill at ease; an unhappy fairy seems more dangerous than a pleased one, in Hux’s estimation. As long as Hux pleases his lord, he remains safe in Ren’s favor and apparently in the favor of his subjects. The line between pleasing Ren so well that he keeps Hux forever and pleasing him well enough Ren doesn’t feed him to his subjects is thin; perhaps so thin that Hux has trouble marking where it lies for himself. 

Thus appeased, the fairies turn back to their food and revelry, occasionally waving at Hux. They pile things on his plate when he goes to the tables, sweets and fruits and tender, marbled meats and glittering, precious jewels. To amuse one of the Ladies, he makes as if to bite into one of the gems--and it shatters under his teeth, crunching like ice but sweeter than honey. The Lady whoops in delight at his startled cry and claps her lily-white hands, calling to him to eat more, more. He goes back to his seat at Ren’s side and licks every one of the jewels on his plate. Some are sweet and crunchy, but others are just the stones they appear. 

One of the Ladies, the one with the blood-colored hair, twists a lock of his hair around her finger, smiling; another with midnight-blue skin examines his right hand with wonder. He imagines he couldn’t really be so new and alien to them, as some look just as human as he or Ren, but they are fascinated as if he is some exotic new thing. 

His days pass in the same pattern: Hux follows Ren about his realm and sees his wonders, eats his food, smiles and dances with Ren’s subjects--but never speaks. The fairies tickle him when Ren’s back is turned, they hand him food and drink and treasures beyond compare, they pet his hair and skin and clothes like a coddled spaniel, and one even pinches him in the ribs, yet Hux holds his silence. In the same way, his nights pass in Ren’s bed. In a gilded haze, he rises only when he desires and spends his time stretched on Ren’s fine bedding like a cat. 

Light shines through the windows of Ren’s chambers only when he wills it; he’s learned that without outside light, Hux will not leave the bed and will sleep or laze for days on end, eating fruit from jeweled dishes and drinking water from Ren’s cups. The idleness burnishes Hux’s skin smooth and fair, the sun’s red touch fading, the dust of the road and calluses of hard work softened in endless hot baths. Ren is fascinated by Hux’s need to shave in the mornings; appearances only change for the Fae at will, and Ren does not care to grow a beard. He shaves Hux with a pearl-handled blade every morning, absurdly self-satisfied with Hux’s clear skin. 

He wakes to the sun well risen, Ren’s hand stroking his hair. 

“Hux,” Ren calls softly, “Hux.”

Hux swats lazily at Ren’s hand, catches it and pulls a couple rings off, puts them on his own slenderer fingers. “I am not ready to wake,” he complains.

“Well, you must,” Ren insists, folding bedclothes away from Hux’s face, “for today your seven years are up and I must return you to your own home.”

“Is it really? It feels but barely seven days.” Hux stretches his stiff arms above his head and groans, falling back down with a sigh. 

“Truly it is,” Ren agrees, rising from his seat on the bed. From around the room he collects various and diverse things Hux has worn: a mantle of rich green silk, a silver belt with a bone-handled knife, green velvet shoes with soft leather soles. “Were I not to make a liar of myself, I should have kept you yet another day each time you wake.”

Hux allows Ren to dress him like a doll, perches on the edge of the bed for Ren to slip his stockings and shoes on; Ren leaves a kiss on Hux’s knee, smiling up at him. “You’d not be a liar if I asked to stay,” Hux says.

Ren sighs, resting his cheek against Hux’s thigh. “That is not within the terms of our agreement,” he replies. “I will not break my word.”

Rolling his eyes, Hux stands. “Very well. Return me to my own.”

The ride from the fairy realm is less harrowing than Hux recalls, perhaps because he is more comfortable in Ren’s presence, or because he knows his destination. Too soon, they arrive at the bank of the river, the day as bright as ever it was. Hux is reluctant to light down from the horse, but it shifts ominously the longer Ren makes it stand in place. 

Through the soft soles of his green shoes, the road feels harsher than he recalls, the stones sharper, as if to cut him to the bone. Even the strong sunlight feels thin, as if it should warm him better. 

Bells on Ren’s steed ring as he turns to go, but Hux catches the bridle in his hand. “My Lord, wait! Before you go.” He hesitates; this is not the right time for it, but he’s hardly likely to encounter a better one. “I must have a token from you, to know this was not all a dream.”

Hux returns Ren’s unblinking gaze, so dark that his eyes appear only black and white. Once they disturbed Hux, his eyes like bores in a stone, but in Fairyland they became familiar, now as much a part of Ren as his halting voice when he’s lost in thought. At last he nods.

“A rare token shall I give to you,” he agrees. His fingers, when they touch Hux’s lips, are terribly cold despite the sun. Life out of the sun and wind has worn away the chapped skin of his mouth; Ren’s two fingers slip between his lips and teeth and catch his tongue between them, barely pinching. 

Hux fears nothing. He’s had Ren’s fingers in his mouth before, merely another odd thing Ren does, touches things inside. He’s seen Ren touch the inside and outside of a shirt to test its softness, dip his fingers in drinks for their heat, rip game and poultry apart and scoop out the offal, let tame or nearly-tame fairy animals chew on his hands. 

“It is a tongue that cannot lie,” Ren whispers, and seizes Hux’s tongue and rips.

The sound of Hux’s scream is cut off--he doesn’t have enough breath for it. He bites down on Ren’s fingers but it’s too late, Ren’s hand is out of his mouth--and holding nothing. Blood should fill Hux’s mouth, run down his throat and drown him, he should be in agony, should be weeping and howling. But Ren’s hand is empty, and when Hux reaches into his own mouth in horror, he finds his tongue there, soft and undamaged. He tastes salt on his own skin. 

“A tongue,” Hux repeats, “that cannot lie.”

“You and I are now the same,” Ren says, his grin nearly closing his eyes. 

“A fine gift this is!” Hux rages. He is not made to be like a Prince of Fairy, dressed in finery and spinning webs of fine truth so close to each other they might pass as lies; he is a mortal man, born to lie like any other to save himself. “How shall I counsel prince or lord, or woo a fair lady?”

Ren scoffs at that--he knows by now that ladies of all stripes are safe from any wooing Hux might try. He shrugs one shoulder, unconcerned with having ruined Hux’s life more thoroughly than any other. “Be careful in your silence, and be sure in what you say.”

With that, he wheels his great black horse around and urges it back along the road to Elfland. As Hux stares down the path, he knows he cannot follow: he should fall into the thorns or be ravaged by some awful beast or else be lost forever, unable to find his way forward or back, and none would come to his aid. At last, he sits on the bank of the river and tries to tell lies to the air. 

The sky is green, he tries, but his voice croaks and dies in his throat. My name is not Hux, he tries, but the words choke him. “I am a prince,” he tries on a whim, while he lists absurdities. The shock of his own voice startles him as badly as if one of the songbirds in the tree had spoken. “I am a prince of fair Elfland, and I have Kylo Ren’s favor.”

Watching the river flow by, he ponders this in his heart. Perhaps this is Ren’s idea of a joke, or a fairy game; it would not surprise him if Ren were to play such a trick. It means Ren must want him back so he can appreciate his fun with Hux’s new place in his kingdom. 

Hux sighs, and turns his face back toward the three paths. “Kylo Ren is a fucking cunt,” he says as clear as any bell.


End file.
